


221 kisses

by Practicefortheheart



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabble Collection, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Rough Kissing, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-20 13:32:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3652200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Practicefortheheart/pseuds/Practicefortheheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of kissy drabbles - you can send me prompts via tumblr!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: first teenlock kiss. <3

“So you see it’s quite simple mathematics, John, I’m sure you’ve the capacity to understand it if you put your mind to it. You are relatively clever.” Sherlock manages to sound bored and smug at the same time. 

“Thanks, Sherlock,” John answers sarcastically. “But can you just go over it with me one more time? Slowly? Please?”

Sherlock sighs dramatically but shoves his notes at John anyway.

“Only because it’s you,” he says, amused. 

John feels a fond smile spread on his face, and lowers his head, studying the hurried scrawl that is Sherlock’s handwriting. Sherlock launches into his lesson with enthusiasm. John’s honestly trying to pay attention to what Sherlock is saying, but he keeps looking at how he moves his hands, how his long and elegant fingers hold his pencil, how they wave through the air, underlining Sherlock’s explanation. 

He still doesn’t understand how Sherlock doesn’t know. Sherlock knows everything about everybody in one glance, but he seems oblivious to Johns intentions in setting up this stupid study date. He can’t rely on Sherlock simply figuring it out. He can’t wait any longer, he can’t keep it contained, he feels so wound up around Sherlock lately. It needs to be over today. 

After nearly two hours of studying, Sherlock gets up from the desk and lets himself fall on John’s bed. “Enough! That’s as much tutoring I can handle today.” John looks at his friend, spread out on his bed, his shirt rucked up and showing a strip of pale skin above his waistband, and stands up suddenly. “I’ll make us some tea, yeah?” He asks, no longer looking at Sherlock and fleeing his own room without waiting for a reply. 

Alone in the kitchen, he takes a deep breath. God, he’s such an idiot. Sherlock will go home soon, and he’s still at square one. How do people do this? He puts the kettle on and prepares the mugs, adding a liberal amount of sugar in Sherlock’s. “Come on, Watson!” he mutters to himself, willing himself to be brave. 

When he enters his room, gingerly holding the two steaming mugs, Sherlock is still on his bed. He ignores John, completely engrossed in the pictures tacked on the wall next to it. John brings the mugs over and sets them on the nightstand. 

“Who’s this?” Sherlock asks, planting his finger on one of the pictures. John leans in close to see who Sherlock’s asking about. 

“Oh, that’s James. I met him last summer when I went to that sports camp.” 

“You like him!” Sherlock accuses him.

“What?” John stammers, a bit taken aback by Sherlock’s tone.

“You’re standing very close together, closer than all the other boys, see? It’s clear you got along very well - are you wearing matching shirts? - but you’ve never mentioned him to me. Not in your letters, or after you came back. That means you must really like him.”

John flushed. This was not going the way he had hoped. Save yourself, Watson. 

“Well, yes, I...I did. But…”

“Do you still write him?” Sherlock fixes him with a stare.

“What? No! Why do you care?” 

Sherlock’s expression suddenly changes from accusing to something like fear and a faint pinkness colours his cheeks. 

John is still leaning on the bed, and he can see Sherlock’s eyes, wide and pale, and the freckles on his nose. His desperation from a moment ago vanishes and makes way for hope and determination. He grabs Sherlock by his upper arm and ducks forward to press his lips against the soft skin next to the corner of his mouth before pulling back quickly. 

“I like you better,” he manages to squeak. 

He feels the blood rushing to his face, his heart beating in his ears, waiting for a reaction. Sherlock is studying John, his hand slowly coming up to touch his own face. 

“John!” he whispers after a few seconds, as if his mind was malfunctioning and is only now stringing things together.

John is unable to move, pinned by those sharp eyes, and his throat isn’t working. He can only sit there and wait. 

Then Sherlock starts inching forward, very very slowly. His hand trembles a little when he places it on John’s arm. John’s breath rushes into his lungs, Sherlock’s fingers burning through his shirt. Still moving carefully, Sherlock presses first his nose, and then his lips against John’s cheek. John realises he’s mimicking his own movements, but so softly, as if he wants to savour the experience, and perhaps make notes after. 

Sherlock’s eyes are too closeby to focus on, so John closes his against the blur of green and grey. Then he moves his head fractionally, bumping his nose into Sherlock’s and seeking his lips with his own. Their mouths are just touching, lightly, and John’s chest feels too small for his heart. His hands feel clammy, and he shifts restlessly, trying to wipe them on his jeans. 

But then Sherlock’s lips smile against his, and that feels so incredibly wonderful, the tension flows out of him at once and he vows he’ll chase that smile until he knows the taste of it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Adrenaline-fueled rough Johnlock kisses after solving a big case.

Sherlock and John looked at the chaos of police cars and officers surrounding the seemingly ordinary house where they had successfully ambushed the suspect in a triple homicide case.

In this case, ‘successfully’ meant a bleeding lip and a scraped cheekbone for Sherlock and a twisted ankle for John. They were standing outside the police tape, waiting for Lestrade to give them permission to go home, and probably to summon them to his office in the morning. Which was in a few hours already, John noticed wearily.

Sherlock was still buzzing with energy, radiating waves of euphoria, despite the sure signs of exhaustion underneath. John loved to see him like this - proud, tall and giddy as a boy at the same time. John himself was closer to being dead on his feet, but the adrenaline was still raging through his system and he managed to keep up with Sherlock’s explanations long enough to throw in some words of praise.  

“It’s incredible, Sherlock, I can’t believe you’ve solved this one so quickly.” It was true that John had seen Sherlock solve innumerable mysteries, but still he was in awe of the way Sherlock could piece everything together so easily. This case had seemed like a hopeless one, but barely three days had passed before they were forcing their way into their killer’s hiding spot.

“We. _We_ did,” Sherlock corrected.

“Hm? I didn’t do much at all. It was all you.”

“He almost knocked me out earlier, if you hadn’t been there…”

Sherlock suddenly stepped closer, a predatory gleam in his eyes, which stirred something in John’s gut.

“It was quite...sexy,” he continued, his voice a low rumble.

Tiredness forgotten, John swallowed hard and stepped back, trying to remind himself and Sherlock both that they were still in public. Unfortunately, the move only made it easier for Sherlock to crowd him against the wall behind his back. Sherlock loomed over him, placing his gloved hands on either side of John’s head, caging him in. They didn’t say anything, Sherlock challenging him with an intense look. Then his gaze slowly moved from John’s eyes to his mouth, and John felt raw attraction flare up between them, urging him to take and devour.

“Oh, sod the police,” he growled and pulled Sherlock down by his scarf, crushing their mouths together. Their noses and teeth collided, but John roughly yanked at Sherlock’s hair to get a better angle. The wet heat of Sherlock’s tongue was a sharp contrast to the chill in the air and they moaned at the contact.

John let Sherlock invade all his senses. Breathing in the scent of sweat and smoke, the rough texture of wool brushing against his fingertips. With Sherlock panting against his ear and the leather gloves catching at the skin of his throat, it was easy to dismiss everything that wasn’t the two of them.

John really enjoyed their usual languid kisses, the way Sherlock could melt against him, the softness. That was a Sherlock only John got to see, and it was a small miracle how tender and fragile he allowed himself to be at those times. But this, this was why he wanted to be with Sherlock - the puzzles, the adrenaline kick, the frantic energy. Making himself useful, being in danger and being dangerous in turn. It made him want to be alive. It made him want to feel everything at once.

Suddenly John was shoved back, his head hitting the brickwork hard, but the sensation of pain only added to the fire rapidly building low in his belly. Sherlock moved his lips down from John’s to place open mouthed kisses along his throat, pressing his tonue over his pulse point and tugging at his jumper to get better access to his collarbones. The scrape of teeth over his clavicle roused John out of his passivity. He grabbed Sherlock’s hips and drew them towards him, grinning up at Sherlock’s surprised gasp as he ground their bodies together. Bringing one hand up to pull at Sherlock’s curls again, he exposed his long pale neck and licked a hot stripe up towards his ear.

“J-John!” Sherlock’s voice was a needy whisper.

Sherlock swooped down again, capturing John’s mouth once more and John tasted the coppery tang of blood where the skin was broken. He brushed his tongue over the wound, lapping at the blood until Sherlock hissed impatiently. John deepened the kiss then, keeping Sherlock’s head in place with one hand, while the other was still clutching his hip. Sherlock pulled back, breathing hard and pushing his nose against John’s, so he could look down where he reached for John’s fly.

“God, yes,” John groaned, maneuvering himself so that Sherlock had a bit more room to move his hands.

The sound of a throat being cleared was like a gunshot. They both looked up to see Lestrade silhouetted against the dull light of the streetlamps behind him. He shuffled his feet a little.

“We are done here, so ehm...make sure you come in for statements tomorrow, alright?” He sounded both embarrassed and amused, and John felt the blood rush all the way up to the tips of his ears. Sherlock wasn’t flustered at all. Calmly stepping away from John and turning his coat collar up, he smoothly swept passed Lestrade as if he wasn’t just about to shove his hand down John’s pants right next to a crime scene.  

“Come on, John, let’s take this home. At least Mrs. Hudson knows not to interrupt.”

John pretended not to see the knowing smirk on Greg’s face when he moved to follow Sherlock and hoped to God he hadn’t had the chance to catch them at it on camera.

But watching Sherlock as he commandeered a young police officer to give them a lift home, with his lips red and swollen and his hair a messy halo of curls, he found himself not caring at all.

 

 


End file.
